OPENING OF THE BALL.
The house was lighted up from roof to basement. The windows were one
blaze of gold, ruby, or azure, as the silken draperies through which the
rays passed chanced to be tinted. A fine, weeping elm that drooped its
branches at one end of the house seemed bathed in sunshine, so rich was
the flood of light that poured through the painted glass of the bay
windows. The marble vases that lined the broad steps to the front
entrance gleamed out like snow beneath the contrast of the trailing
leaves and gorgeous blossoms that crowded them. The folding-doors were
constantly open, and a broad pavement of light fell to the street, where
a curious crowd was gathered to watch the guests as they descended from
their carriages.
Within all was equally brilliant. The library and Gillian’s boudoir,
which opened from it, were thrown together in rich contrast, like two
grand pictures of the ancient school, a Rembrandt and a Guido. The one,
so deep in shadows, that a world of light seemed absorbed in revealing
it; the other, so fresh and fairy-like, that it seemed as if Aurora
herself must have prepared it for her train.
In the library, bronzes and dark carvings gave depth and richness to
harmonize with its crimson draperies. In the boudoir, statues and
statuettes of pure white marble grouped their snowy limbs under clouds
of azure and lace drapery, looped back from the windows by garlands of
natural roses, that sent their breath in among the heavy books, and
played with the golden light of the chandeliers in the library. In one
window a Hebe vase of alabaster, classic and stately, was tinted red by
the blossoms of a fuchsia that drooped over it. The curtains of another
were held away from the windows by a laughing Bacchante, who seemed to
have forgotten the grapes which he grasped triumphantly in his uplifted
hands. In a little recess, which opened upon a balcony, a marble Cupid
lay asleep literally on a bed of roses, for fresh blossoms breathed all
around him, on his snowy couch and over his delicate limbs, blending
their pink light with his smiles, till he seemed to laugh in his dreams.
The carpet was soft and fleecy, like a bed of soft snow, over which the
Cupids, on the exquisitely frescoed ceiling overhead, had been pelting
fresh flowers all the day long.
Every thing in this room was cloud-like and vapory. The floating lace,
the sleeping statues, and the roguish Cupids overhead seemed pervaded by
a silvery mist, for the light came moonlike through a partition of
plate-glass, that alone shut out a conservatory beyond.
Through this translucent partition glowed sheets of azaleas,
rhododendrons, and golden-leaved acacias, with other rare tropical
plants all in full flower, over which globes of ground glass shed their
soft moonlight, which penetrated to the boudoir, revealing it like a
dream.
Into this room Gillian came alone to meet her lover, one happy moment
before the company poured in. Down she glided along the broad staircase,
pure as snow and bright as a sunbeam. Fold upon fold—fold upon fold of
delicate lace enveloped her. Silvery tulle over net, and above that the
gossamer richness of Brussels point, with traceries that seemed like
frost-work forming as she moved, gleamed and floated around her. From
the coronet of hair that circled her queenly head fell a triple vail of
tulle, like mist tinted through and through by the prism; azure, white,
rose-color, and pale violet fell over her dress as the morning tints a
cloud, and through this her face shone out resplendent in its
loveliness, for the thought of meeting him had scattered rose-leaves on
her cheek, and filled her eyes with love-light. She was indeed what her
dress proclaimed her, “Queen of the Morning!”
Woodworth was in the boudoir waiting. He saw her enter the library and
glide through. She approached the boudoir, not with her usual
self-possession, but like a child who longs to be admired, and is yet
ashamed of the desire. That night Gillian panted to be beautiful, but
love made her diffident, so she came in blushing and half-abashed.
Woodworth held his breath; she seemed so much like one of those
creations of Guido which never seem quite of earth, that he stood lost
in pleasant surprise. She came close to him, wondering why he did not
speak.
One little hand stole out from under the cloud of her vail and touched
his arm. He prisoned the white hand in his, and thus they stood together
in the moonlight that beamed from the conservatory, smiling on each
other, but silent. Perfect love has no language, and requires none. With
those eyes upon her face, Gillian knew that she was becoming more and
more beautiful every moment. She felt like an angel; he thought that she
looked like one.
A few words were murmured after this, fragmentary nothings, I dare say,
but very sweet and musical to them. Before it could become conversation,
the unwelcome sound of footsteps in the vestibule made them draw apart,
and directly a lady, who seemed to have glided out of Louis the
Fifteenth’s court, came into the library and moved slowly toward them.
Gillian looked upon the intruder with surprise, for she seemed a perfect
stranger. In all her list of friends she remembered no one so queenly in
her presence, so impressed with an air of command.
The dress, an old-fashioned brocade of apple-green and silvery white,
looped up with ribbons from an under skirt of rose-colored silk, was of
regal richness. The tall head-dress, powdered, puffed, and woven in with
jewels; the plume of snowy feathers on one side, and the fall of a
glowing rose back from the left temple, were gorgeous, but subdued by
powder; while the neck and arms gleamed whitely through a profusion of
yellow old lace, and the stomacher blazed with jewels.
“Who can it be?” whispered Gillian, gazing upon the lady, whose face
seemed to possess scarcely a familiar line.
“One would think she had stepped out of a picture but for these bright
eyes. Who can she be?”
“Hush! she is in search of us. I know her, and yet cannot imagine who
she is,” whispered Woodworth, drawing Gillian back to his side. “She is
evidently looking for some one.”
The lady entered, saw Gillian, and came forward.
“My dear Miss Bentley, and you also my friend,” she said, with
cheerfulness, evidently forced, for her voice was husky.
Gillian gave a little start, and then broke into a birdlike laugh.
“Mrs. Ransom—oh, my dear Mrs. Ransom! I am so glad you have come! I
waited and waited up-stairs, thinking that you might want help about
your dress; but it is perfect: I never saw such a change: who on earth
would recognise you? I shall have to introduce you twice over to papa;
he will never get the least idea of you in this splendid costume.”
“So you would not have known me?” said Mrs. Ransom. “Well, I am glad of
it—one does not bring every-day life into a scene like this. If I do no
discredit to ‘this fair morning,’ it is enough.”
“But your dress is so brilliant, and your face so pale,” cried Gillian.
“Is it these pretty patches, or are you nervous? I never saw you so
white before.”
Mrs. Ransom laughed rather hoarsely.
“Oh, that is a trick of the toilet which Ruby will explain when you ask
her; but let me look at you both. Indeed, is it so? Can such happiness
exist and endure? God bless you both!”
“Why, how you tremble! how cold your hand is!” cried Gillian, warming
the chilled hand with her kisses.
“It is the new sensation of coming into a crowd: don’t mind it; but tell
me if Mr. Bentley has consented.”
“Generously, nobly,” said Woodworth. “Oh, Mrs. Ransom, he is a prince
among men.”
“He is—he is——”
Mrs. Ransom uttered these words so impressively that Gillian and
Woodworth looked at each other. Mrs. Ransom saw the glance, and went on,
catching her breath as she spoke.
“Every one says that. It is a beautiful thing to be so respected, so
thoroughly beloved. Your father should be a very happy man, Gillian.”
She spoke feverishly, and her eyes kindled.
“My father is too sensitive, too solitary in his habits for happiness,
but he is good, wise, and generous, and these things are great
blessings. To-night he has promised to be very, very happy—but I
saddened him only a few minutes since. It seemed as if I never wanted a
mother so much in my whole life as I do this evening. I told him so, and
it brought tears into his eyes. I tried to caress him into cheerfulness
again, but he shrunk away from me; so I was a little mournful for the
time. But he is here, and you have come: what more can I want? There,
there is papa now looking for us. One moment, Mrs. Ransom!”
Gillian hurried forward into the library and met her father half-way.
Mrs. Ransom took Woodworth’s arm, leaning heavily upon it. She saw
Gillian coming forward dimly like a cloud followed by a dark shadow.
“Mrs. Ransom—my father, Mr. Bentley.”
Julia heard the words, and moved forward under a chandelier in the
library. Bentley saw a fine woman glittering with jewels. Her eyes shone
upon him like stars reflected deep in a lake; but she seemed too pale
for a woman of robust health, which was evident from the round fullness
of her person. The unnatural contrast of her face and her person struck
him with a sort of chill. But he could not remove his eyes from her
gaze. She had fascinated him by a look, as she had thousands and
thousands by her genius. Though a recluse, in many respects, Mr. Bentley
bad seen too much of society not to feel that some words of hospitality
were expected from him; but he could not speak them: the very presence
of this woman enthralled his senses.
She did not seem embarrassed, but excited and eager; her lips parted,
her hands trembled visibly. She looked down at them and seemed terrified
by her own agitation.
“You see how society affects me,” she said, turning desperately to
Woodworth. “Bring me a glass of water—I pray you bring me a glass of
water.”
She was evidently faint; her parted lips were white as snow; the lids
trembled over her eyes. She staggered; Bentley threw his arms around her
or she would have fallen. As it was, a shudder passed through her frame,
and she was sinking from his arm to the floor.
Gillian caught her with both arms, for her father seemed paralyzed.
“Help me lift her, papa; she is quite gone; her cheek is cold as death.”
This plea aroused Bentley—his eyes kindled—he grew strong.
“Give her to me entirely,” he said, bearing her to a sofa. “She is
evidently, like me, oppressed by the idea of this crowd.”
He laid her softly on the sofa, while Gillian arranged the cushions, and
knelt down, listening for a breath from those cold lips.
“Oh, father, is she dead?” cried Gillian, startled by the strangeness of
his face.
“I do not know,” he said, vaguely; “but it seemed just now as if some
one had died a second time. Have you any strange feeling of bereavement,
Gillian?”
“I had, an hour ago, while thinking of my mother; but now I tremble with
anxiety to see this dear lady look up.”
“Your mother!” cried Bentley, starting up with a gesture of sudden pain.
“Gillian, a moment since this woman lay upon my bosom. It was your
mother’s place till—till—girl, how dare you ask me to lift that form in
these arms!”
“I thought she was dying, papa.”
“And so she is, perhaps,” answered Bentley, with sudden gentleness. “We
are cruel to bring old regrets here. Why does not Woodworth come with
the water?”
“He is here! he is here!” cried Gillian, meeting Woodworth and taking
the goblet from his hand. “Now, papa, if you would leave the room and
get a little more calm.”
“Calm, child! I am calm!”
“It is terrible to see any one so close to death,” said Woodworth,
lifting Julia’s head, and attempting to force the water through her
lips, “and she the most noble of human beings; this paleness frightens
me.”
Bentley took one of the hands that fell downward toward the carpet; a
pulse leaped into the wrist as he touched it, and the palm grew warm
against his.
“She is better,” he said, unconsciously clasping the hand—“much better.
Speak, dear lady, and tell me if I am right.”
She did not answer; but he felt her fingers tighten around his, while a
tremor passed over her mouth.
“Yes, I am better. Oh, if this were death now!” She whispered this,
faintly struggling, as it were, not to grow strong or entirely
conscious.
That instant the voice of Aunt Dinah penetrated to the library, and the
sound of her feet, patting across the floor of the vestibule, gave a
promise of vigorous help.
“Where am she, I says? What am all dis touse ’bout, takin’ off der
glasses from der tables afore meal-time, and raisin’ ole Scratch
gin’rally? What lady am it as guvs up afore der fun begins? I’m a’most
out o’ breath climbing to dat chist. Den der lock got obstrop’rous and
wouldn’t work, and I got mad—bang! open it flew, and here’s a bottle ob
der best camfire dat ebber cum under dis ruff; I certifies to dat,
anyhow, I does. Miss Gillian, where am der indervideral? jist p’int her
out.”
Before any one could speak, Dinah saw Mrs. Ransom lying on the sofa, and
darted toward her the more vigorously as a carriage that moment rolled
up to the door. Without pause or caution she gathered the palm of her
withered hand into a hollow, filled it from the flask, and dashed it
into Mrs. Ransom’s face with a suddenness that made the poor lady gasp
painfully.
“Bring her to in no time!” cried Dinah, triumphantly, filling her palm
again. “Jes see der color come ter ’er mout’; but den dis yer camfire is
strong ’nough to stand ’lone. None ob yer city potticary stuff dat yer.
Hab ter cork up tight ter keep alive, but sharp as horseradish an’
stingin’ as mustard. Am yer ’viving, marm? Der yer feel dis yer camfire
burnin’ from der crown ob yer head ter de soles ob yer feet? ’cause if
yer don’t I’se on hand for t’odder dose.”
“Foolish old woman, I am better,” murmured Mrs. Ransom, dreamily. “Don’t
disturb me again; I want to sleep.”
“What? how? Foolish ole woman! foolish ole woman! Now dis indervederal
hasn’t had der honor of a ’duction, an’ she calls me ole woman: dat’s
manners ’mung white folks, I ’spose.”
Dinah was so exasperated that she gave her head a vigorous toss, and
handed her camphor bottle to Woodworth, with the air of a marshal of
France resigning his baton in disgust.
“I ’spect when Miss Gillian twisted dis turben round my head, and
’vested me with dis silk gown, she wasn’t ’specting ter see de owner
’sulted; but I’ll detire till dis yer lady comes ter a sense ob her
sitivation an’ mine. Ole woman! wonder what she calls ole—ugh!”
Mrs. Ransom smiled as one laughs in a dream; but when Mr. Bentley
quietly rebuked Dinah and sent her from the room, she seemed to recover
her faculties with a start, and sat up, looking earnestly around.
“Have I been ill?” she said, turning her eyes on Gillian—“ill and
troublesome?”
“Ill, dear lady, but not troublesome.”
She looked eagerly around.
“There was some one else here—or am I mistaken?”
“An old colored woman, whom we all spoil terribly, went out a moment
since, after half-smothering you with camphor, that is all!”
“An old colored woman? I wish she had stayed a moment longer.”
“Shall we call her?” said Woodworth.
“No, no; hark! carriages—another, and I detaining you all here. It is
unpardonable!”
She started up, and arranged her dress with haste, keeping her eyes
averted from the little group of friends.
“Now,” she said, smoothing the lace over her elbows and arranging the
folds of her dress, “shall we go back to the pretty room yonder? I shall
not faint again, depend on it. Hark, the first group is coming. Let us
go!”
Mr. Bentley offered his arm. Mrs. Ransom scarcely touched it as she
appeared to lean upon him. She was self-sustained now, either by fever
or excitement, for her cheeks were red as tea-roses, and her eyes took
the glance of an eagle. She looked younger by ten years than when she
entered the room.
And now the crowd came pouring in through the brilliant library into the
moonlight of the boudoir, chatting, laughing, and treading time to
imaginary music; charmed by the beauty of the young hostess, wondering
that a woman who wrote such books could live, talk, and move like other
people, they passed on through the blooming labyrinths of the
conservatory, and into the great drawing-room. Here the floors were
elaborately ornamented for dancing; and temporary gallery was occupied
by the band, whose music soon rang through the building.